The Mycroft Affair
by Aitherrs
Summary: Marie doesn't like socialising or parties. She doesn't like emotion or people who have too much of it. Does she meet her match in the charming Mycroft Holmes. Mycroft/OC
1. Chapter 1

"The Holmes family have invited to their party tomorrow night, isn't that wonderful Marie?" Mother announced, flouncing into the sitting room, sending the cold winter wind through me. "We may finally get to meet their sons as well. Isn't it just wonderful?" We sigh, for very different reasons. Hers in euphoria. Mine in anguish at yet another fancy dinner at the home of a 'family friend'. I peer over my notebook, finally looking my mother in the eye – not something I often do. The cold air seeps through my exposed legs, I shiver as she watches me intently.

"Mother, must I go this year?" I utter, twisting the emerald fountain pen in my hand, staring at her as she dropped into the crusty arm chair. "I never have any fun and it's not me they want to see anyway." I hate dressing up, especially when it's cold. I hate the cold. I hate the snow. I hate parties and I particularly despise socialising. What a stupid thing to do. Why would anybody want to sit down and talk about what they do for a living? How tedious.

"Marie, you _have _to come! Violet says you absolutely have to meet her sons." I slam my book shut, exasperation consuming my breath as I fling my legs over the edge of the window ledge. "Besides, you don't have a choice. I won't leave you home alone."

"Mother, I'm 27 years old!"

"You don't act like it. I often forget!" She stands triumphantly and saunters towards me. As I lean back, desperate to get away from her claws, she strokes my hair softly. I hate that. "It's tomorrow night. Find something nice to wear!" With a triumphant forehead kiss, she flounces off into the kitchen, shutting the door behind her. Great. Yet another stupid dinner party.

x.x.x.x

She grabs my hand, pulling me up the path of their house. The pink exterior does seem inviting (even if it is entirely too vibrant). I hate this dress. Why did I choose this dress? The windows have glazed over, the cold of winter colliding with the warmth of the indoors, it makes it a truly private party – nobody else can see us from outside. After three quite taps on the door, a vibrant elderly woman flung the door open and smiled pleasantly at my mother – she is surely the woman who painted the house, or rather, coerced her husband into painting it the too vibrant shade of pink. Her black dress with plain and elegant however, and her necklace gave her eyes a desiring quality.

"Anna! I'm so glad you could make it!" She pulls my mother into a swift, polite embrace and turns flamboyantly to me. Here we go… "And you must be Marie! It's a pleasure to finally meet you, I've heard an awful lot about you!" She's a little excitable, don't you think?

"It's wonderful to meet you Violet, thank you so much for inviting me." I smile politely, my eyes wandering to the rustic inner decoration…if you ignore the Christmas tree and bright lights.

"Anna, come, I must show you this book I have been reading!" That announcement marks my mother's cue to run off with another one of hers friends and my cue to find a chair and continue my useless scribbles in my notebook. I clutch my band and survey the lounge area; a large dark red sofa two men chatting in confidence, a quaint arm chair by the lit fire place…perfect. I claim it quickly, not drawing attention to myself. Driving through the sea of unknown and excited faces. Successful, except for the two gentlemen. Both now staring at me. Wonderful.

"Hello." I manage to breathe out, reaching for the notepad in my bag. I unfurl the ribbon and open to my last page. Uncapping the fountain pen, I watch as they begin murmuring. They glance up at me and then continue murmuring.

"More likely to still be living at home." With a prominent jaw line and crystallised eyes, the younger one glances over at me, affirming his statement with a strong nod. "Definitely."

"Excuse me, do you two mind?" I mutter at the two malicious men, both folded neatly into the arm chair. Up until my interruption both had been intently switching their gaze between each other and me. The elder of the two was a well pressed, neat man. A grey suit hugging his shoulders, cascading down his body, meet with well-polished black shoes. His hair, well, what was left of it, is dark and velvety. Clean shaven.

"Apologies. It's a game my brother and I like to play." The elder man explains. His voice is as dark as his hair, the tone as velvety as its appearance. I smile.

"I'm Marie, you must be Violet's sons."

"Indeed you are." He replies with a soft smirk, "I'm Mycroft, and this is my obtrusive brother, Sherlock." I glance at the younger brother, his eyes bored from conversation and frustration marked his brow. I assume he lost the 'game'. His long coat is folded across the sofa's edge and his crisp, white shirt hugged the slim man's body.

"Do you mind if I play?" I ask, Mycroft's eyebrows raise in surprise. The younger, Sherlock, leaps forward in glee, tilting his head and perching his long slim fingers intertwined at the tip of his nose. "Well, you, Mycroft…" I stammer, blush rushing to my cheeks. "Judging by your well pressed suit and neatly folded coat, the neatness of your laces and the glimmer of your teeth, I'd say you suffer with OCD or some other compulsive disorder. Mostly probably OCD I'd say. The suit is probably Armani or some such expensive brand, so you have a lot of money. The laptop on the table in front you, you keep a very close eye on it, so I'd say you work for the government or for the law and something _very _important is on that laptop. It begs the question how far up. I'd say you're a smoker but you smoke like a beginner and have trouble with your breathing. Another thing. You act like a sociopath, or someone without emotion, but your care for your brother suggests otherwise. You care about him, I'd even say you _worry _about him. I think you feel emotion, you just don't like to admit it." He slumps back in his chair. "And as for you," I begin again, "you have recently given up smoking but your brother is a bad influence. You use his cigarettes and lighter as you don't carry your own. Your roommate doesn't like the habit most probably. You crave respect from your older brother. You haven't folded your coat as neatly as your brother but you still fold it. Why? Well it's either because you like neatness which seems unlikely as you seem the type who hoards and keeps things of sentiment, so it's more likely to be because you do it to keep your brother from thinking _too _badly of you. Oh and you like to solve crimes but that's probably because I've read John's blog. How did you survive the fall? I assume he had something to do with it." I sit back, holding the book in my lap. "Did I get anything wrong?"

"Food is ready!" A shriek from the kitchen pierces the silence of the room. Mrs Holmes has impeccable timing. I lean back, subjecting to the end of the _only _interesting conversation I have had in about four years. Sherlock heaves himself up with a sigh and a courteous nod in my direction, billowing towards the kitchen. The click of his expensive shoe, the last sound in the room. I open my book and twist the pen in my hand, I didn't have much to say, to comment on. I bounce my leg flippantly, aware of Mycroft's pensive staring.

"You didn't by the way." I glance up through my scrunched brow, Mycroft looked earnestly perplexed at me. "You didn't get anything wrong. Particularly about the caring. I was impressed. Most people don't notice that I do care. I just find it best to act like I don't feel anything." He admits. I stop my leg, folding my book down the arm chair.

"Why?" I question, leaning forward into the conversation.

"I'm not sure. It's just easier. Particularly with a brother as empty as Sherlock." He soberly stares in the fire place. He relaxes his shoulders, stretching his thin neck, pushing himself back into the chair. The room had flooded into the kitchen, we were completely alone. The fire blazed, lighting the room in a red haze and the log cracked in the heat. "Are you a fan of Christmas?"

"Not really, never been the biggest fan of the whole gift giving and merriness thing. Not really my kind of fun." A brief silence hangs in the room, masked only by the crackling of the fireplace. "I'm sorry but I still don't understand, how is it easier?"

"It's just _easier." _He breathes.

"How?" I question again, sliding forward in my chair. As he leans away from me, relaxing into the easiness of the conversation. I tense up, the thirst for knowledge and power overcoming my manners. "How could it be easier to act like you don't care?"

"It just is. Are you hungry? I am, I'm going to get some food." With that he was gone. Into the kitchen.

x.x.x.x.x

I didn't see Mycroft for the rest of that evening, or Sherlock for that matter. They both just disappeared and I was left to the sweet bitter taste of victory over the elder Mr Holmes. I didn't speak to anyone until my mother came to 'collect' me.

"We must be going. It's getting late and I have to work in the morning." My mother said softly, glancing around the room. I follow her to the door, close behind as she slides to door in heels that neither fit nor look vaguely comfortable. "I had a _wonderful_ time Violet dear. We must meet up again so. You must pop around for tea some time." Violet smiles kindly and shakes my hand as my mother laughs her away out of the door. I saunter down the path, my mind wandering to that of the elder Mr Holmes.

"Marie!"

As I turn, I find Sherlock gazing down at me, his long, slender fingers wrapped around the leather binding of my book. He smiles stiffly as he holds it out to me.

"Mycroft asked me to come out and give this to you. He found it and asked that I return it." He coughs and splutters as he speaks. "It was…_interesting _making your acquaintance tonight. I'm sure Mycroft would agree with me."

I smile, upset by the absence of the elder Holmes. If he had found it, why didn't _he _return it? It would have made more sense. I shake his hand and thank him gratefully for taking the time to bring me my journal and walk to my mother on the dimly lit country road. She wraps her arm and my shoulder and smiles. Motherly awareness. I hate it.

I look back at the house, one final glance. The top left window. Mycroft was there. His left arm resting softly against the pane. Fog covering his face from the warmth of his breath.

I smile.


	2. Chapter 2

_**Merry Christmas Marie. –MH **_

MH? I don't even know an MH. Mother comes back through the kitchen with two cups of tea, neatly placed on one her pink coffee trays.

"Mother, do we have any relatives whose initials are MH?" I question lightly, taking the cup from her newly polished fingers. I'd bought her a new makeup and nail set for Christmas, knowing full well it would lessen the amount of talking I'd have to do on Christmas day. She shakes her head profusely, plump lips wrapped around the rim of her china cup. I pick up my phone and text back:

_**Who is this? – MO**_

I sit back and watch the dull fire roar in an agonising wait. The sound of clunky cups and soft slurping filling the damp silence that hangs in the room. My mother sits in her finest dress reading a novel, probably one of romance or some such fairy tale. My screen lights up.

_**Mycroft Holmes. It's a pleasure to hear from you. How's Christmas going? – MH**_

I smile at the unexpected text from the unexpected recipient. I imagine he got my number using the perks of his job – I really must find out how high up in government he actually is.

_**Stealing my personal details now? It's unbearable – it's barely lunchtime and I want to just run away from the abundance of boredom my mother has bundled me into. How's yours? – MO **_

My eyes wander from my phone to my mother whose eyes have wandered to the window. I wonder if she ever misses father. She doesn't act like she does. I don't. I never will either. I watch her intently, the curve of her lip falling as she gets lost further and further into her mind.

_**I can't believe it is only 12 o'clock. I feel like Christmas is going on forever. Would you like to join me for a walk? – MH **_

I smile at my phone, in a girlish way that sits very wrongly on my face. As my cheeks redden, I splutter and look up at mother – she is staring intently at me now.

"Do you mind if I go out for a walk with Mycroft Holmes? He's asked me to walk with him for a little while?" I ask, rather immaturely, but even I – the queen of no emotion – don't want to leave her alone at Christmas unless she doesn't mind it. She smiles knowingly – I hate that she knows. Why does she always know? When mothers give birth, do they get given some kind of special sixth sense?

"Of course not, perhaps go up and dress a little more warmly however. It may start to snow." She murmurs, as she glides towards the kitchen with two empty mugs and the same knowing smile.

X.x.x.x

I meet him, by the church yard. Bickliegh is small, rather too small for socialites and rather too big for a recluse. The shops line the streets, each lamp post, glittering in the fog, lit up a new one. When I meet him by the church yard, he stands majestically as many would expect of OCD government official. His umbrella, hooked over his arm falls just below the knee; close to his coat which falls just above it. The coat is furled up against the cold, harsh country air and his eyes are contently staring at his phone. When he sees me, the contented look grows and a small quiver in his lips greets me.

"Hello Marie." He greets, with a soft, unexpected hand shake. We sit on the bench, marked '_for Alan and Joan, sisters who died in 2009'_. The silence that greets us is neither comfortable nor uncomfortable. Just like the air is new stale nor vibrant. There are very few other people in this world, I have noticed, who can sit in silence and just be. Be calm. Be thoughtful. Be anything they want.

Then he breaks the silence.

"I'm sorry I didn't come out to give you your book back, it was cowardly, I admit." I'd like to say he was solemn, to find a hint of compassion in his voice. But there was none. His tone was steady and resolved – much like the man it attached itself to. "But I couldn't bear to be understood by another human being – it's a frightful thought."

"I'd ask a question but I think that is what caused the difficulty last time." He scoffs softly at the wind, forcing his eyes forward. I look ahead, mirroring his awkward action. I lick my lip, my tongue warming them from blue to rose. My breath steady in the cold air.

"I'll make you a deal," he finally replies, "you may ask the question but I do not have to answer it, if I do not wish to. Does that seem fair?" It was fair – which is why he suggested it. He does not seem to be the type of man who would make a suggestion that was implausible; nothing was ever suggested that would hurt his pride and honour.

"Why did you text me?" I pause, my words biting the air, but only for a moment. "I would never have seen you again if you hadn't made the effort to see me. But why? You say you don't want to be understood but surely spending more time with me will only increase the likelihood of that.." I drift off, fathoming his reasons. Surely he has a motive – I just can't figure it out. His head turns sharply towards me and I feel his look. Its intent and its glint of happiness.

"Perhaps it's time I grew close to another human being, Marie." The warmth in my cheeks is no longer caused by the weather and the smile breaching my lips is no longer caused by forced kindness.

"Perhaps," I begin, finally returning his gaze. "Wouldn't it be simpler just to get a goldfish?" I question sarcastically – I hear people grow attached to pets – I've never much seen the appeal myself.

"Aren't they one and the same?" He retorts, quirking his lips softly as he holds my stare. I laugh softly, embarrassed by my blushing, giggle and emotion. I haven't laughed in years and my stomach aches as it stretches into action after so long. I throw him one last soft huff of laugh and stand up.

"I do believe we said we were walking. All we are doing right now," I grab his hands, his grip tightens around mine as we heave his body from the moulding of the bench. "Is sitting on our bums talking emotionally." He smiles and his body stretches into its long, thin, natural loom and he looks down at me. I take his arm as he holds it out politely and we head towards the woods.

x.x.x.x

I couldn't help but smile as I remembered his admonition for friendship and closeness. Of course, mother had known as soon as I put my key in the door that I had feelings for the guy; we'd barely been gone and hour. But, of course, being a person who rarely mingles with the opposite sex, if I spend two minutes with a man, she assumes we are engaged.

Her frantic cooking was reflected in her hair and the glint in her eye and she bounded the hall to greet me. Her hair is really quite scary – she has the whole medusa look going on right now. I fear that if I look directly at it I will turn to stone.

"How was it?" She sounded like I'd been to Thailand or on some whirlwind adventure…in fact, what I'd experience was _better _than that.

I shrug and grab my note book from the table and plop myself onto the sofa – she has gone back to the kitchen and the cooker fizzes, pops and crackles as I remember his admonition. Marie and Mycroft.

So I pulled open my notebook and wrote, the only way I knew how to express myself:

_I didn't notice when winter came. _

_When the birds stopped singing. _

_When the leaves fell a thousand feet, _

_Or when the lake froze over._

_I didn't notice when winter came._

_When the darkness,_

_Overpowered the light,_

_Or when the wind began to blow. _

_Because…_

_When I'm with you, _

_The sun conquers the moon,_

_The birds hum soft melodies, _

_The trees blossom,_

_And the lake stands calm…_

…_Falling at the feet of beauty as it walks past. _


End file.
